


Thinking of Blue Always

by vands38



Series: Rainbow Road (F1 AU) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Formula One, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Driver!Geralt, Formula One, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Journalist!Jaskier, Love Confessions, M/M, Not Beta Read, Polish Geralt, Polish Jaskier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, it's not my first rodeo, yes the car is called Roach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Geralt is a Formula 1 driver. That’s it. That’s the plot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Rainbow Road (F1 AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113965
Comments: 35
Kudos: 201





	Thinking of Blue Always

**Author's Note:**

> This is from a joke prompt by my housemate that I turned into a real prompt because it actually had the audacity to be good. 
> 
> I was a F1 nerd during the Schumacher era so a lot of this is based on F1 racing as it was approx 15+ years ago – there’s still grid girls and no DRS – however we’re on a modern-day Silverstone circuit and I’m pretty sure I mention a fatality as recent as 2014 so… ??? there are no doubt many unintentional inaccuracies but I’m happy to fix them if you drop a comment.
> 
> also hastily googled: polish idioms. please let me know if I screwed up! The title is meant to be a play on "thinking of blue almonds" which means "to daydream".
> 
> cw: car crashes, implied PTSD, injury detail, alcohol (underage by US standards)
> 
> p.s. I realised that I missed the golden opportunity to make Jaskier a grid girl so here I am, literally begging someone to draw art of a scantily clad, heavily corporate, model!Jaskier leaning against a racing car. I am BEGGING you.

“Press in the pits!” someone shouts across the sound of revving engines, whirring machinery, and heavy rain on the garage roof.

Geralt grunts and effectively abandons his pre-race meditation. He hates this part of the grand prix. The actual race was fine. But the needless preamble? Being carted out before the cameras before and after each race? He hated it. When he was new to F1 and shunted into a infamously shitty team, the journalists rarely bothered him; he could just hide inside the garage that smelled comfortingly of engine oil and grease during the pits, and examine his car from the back of the line during grids without so much as a grid girl interrupting his work. He never had to preen on the podium or sit in the stuffy press conferences that followed. But then, unfortunately, they put him on a new team and he started winning –

“– Rivia –”

Geralt winces and attempts to look very busy twisting a dirty rag in his hands. He almost wishes he was likeable enough for the mechanics to talk to him more than was necessary, just so he’d look busy when the journalists did their rounds.

“– the current favourite to win, starting pole position on the legendary Silverstone circuit after coming first in qualifying yesterday by a good margin. Let’s see if we can have a quick word with him,” the journalist rambles, stepping backwards into the garage – dangerous, stupid – as he continues prattling to the camera, “A trained mechanic, Rivia is most often found amongst his teammates, and more than once under the belly of the car, let’s see if we’re lucky enough to find him today –”

As the journalist approaches, Geralt casts his eyes around for anything that could rescue him from the impromptu interview but the manager is talking to another driver and the mechanics are all hard at work. _Fuck_.

“Ah! There he is! Skulking in the corner, no doubt anticipating the difficult race before him. Rivia – do you have any reservations about this circuit?”

Geralt turns around to see a familiar grey-haired man, sticking a large bulbous microphone underneath his chin before changing his mind and switching it back to himself, “You’ve bested Silverstone before but never in such weather conditions.”

Geralt will never understand why these journalists insist on repeating the same trite questions that the audience anticipate and already know the answer to. Who even watches these pre-race shows? He recognises the man and the logo emblazoned across the cameraman's tech and realises, unfortunately, that this is the prominent British broadcaster for F1 and they’re currently at a British circuit. Geralt should probably be _nice_. But the man’s as dull as tripe in oil and rude to boot; invading his garage and calling his meditative state ‘skulking’ like he’s a moody teenager and not a three time world champion.

The microphone is placed under his chin, expectantly.

Just to be a dick, Geralt shrugs.

An awkward moment passes where Geralt glares and the journalist’s eager eyes – pleading him to speak – stare back.

This is probably why Geralt has the reputation that he does – rude, and dismissive – but the journalists don’t seem to understand how stressful their inane questions are and how difficult it is to retain the mindset of the race.

Then, the journalist scowls and turns back to the camera, laughing awkwardly. “Classic Rivia. You’re not one for words, are you? Can you at least tell us if you’ll be using wet tyres today?”

“It’s raining,” Geralt states simply, blinking at the man so he knows that his question is as needless as they both know it is. It’s been raining all morning; there won’t be a single car on the grid not using wet tires in such conditions.

The journalist clears his throat and darts a questioning gaze back to the cameraman before trying again. “Enjoying the classic English weather then?” he laughs.

Geralt narrows his eyes. Questions about the race are one thing – no matter how inane – but small talk about _weather_? “Reminds me of home,” he grunts, barely resisting speaking Polish as he does so, especially when his eyes fall on a bright turquoise umbrella just outside the garage. “If you excuse me.”

Geralt hears the British journalist prattling away to cover up the fact that Geralt just abandoned him for a journalist he’d much rather talk to and can’t find it within himself to care.

Julian ‘Jaskier’ Pancratz looks as ridiculous as always; wearing a brightly patterned shirt and skinny jeans impractical for this weather. Thankfully, most of the atrocious yellow duck print is hidden beneath a neon polka-dot jumper. Actually, perhaps that’s not much to be thankful for. At least he’s keeping warm amidst this summer rain unlike the poor grid girls he’d seen huddling under their umbrellas.

“Jaskier,” he greets and the journalist grins, yanking on the loose arms of his race suit to pull him out of the rain and under his aqua blue umbrella. (The same colour as his eyes – not that he’s noticed.)

He does notice, however, the way that Jaskier’s eyes roam over his outfit – dark grey race suit rolled down to the waist, his tight black undershirt on display, and no doubt grease stains over his hands and face and maybe even tangled in the ends of his shoulder-length white hair.

“You never dress up for me,” Jaskier teases in their native tongue.

Geralt huffs a laugh. The cameras are rolling, livestreaming their conversation to their home country, but as far as Geralt can tell, Jaskier’s interviewing style is flirtatious and fun and Geralt has learned to take everything he says with a pinch of salt. He has even learned to respond in kind when the turquoise microphone is angled towards him, “I’m not sure if a tuxedo would be suited to the cockpit.”

Jaskier laughs – it’s genuine, and full of amusement, and makes the corner of his eyes crinkle in that adorable way of his. They’re standing so close under this umbrella that he can feel the heat of Jaskier’s exhale in the air between them, the sleeve of his jumper rubbing against Geralt’s bare arm every time he tilts the microphone. “Perhaps not,” Jaskier allows, “but I’d like to see it anyway.” The man winks. “Now, this constant rain, I was just telling Essi here how much it reminded me of home.”

Somehow this line of inquiry isn’t nearly as asinine as it was when it was falling from the Brit’s mouth not two minutes ago, perhaps because Jaskier has the same memories of puddles in schoolyards that the same sight on tarmac provokes now. Geralt huffs another laugh, and admits, “Not cold enough. If we were home, you’d be wrapped up in a ridiculously coloured parka to have this interview.”

“I don’t consider lime green to be a ridiculous colour,” Jaskier replies with all his usual charm, “but I take your point.”

Geralt swallows the sudden desire that sparks within him; the image his mind conjures of Jaskier bundled up in a bright colour, coming home out of the cold with flushed red cheeks and that blinding smile, Geralt kissing his cold lips and feeling that warm exhale against his cheeks, sliding his hands underneath the thick coat to cradle that narrow waist in his hands –

“So,” Jaskier says, bringing him out of his fantasy. “I won’t bore you with talk of tyres or team tactics but I am curious about Becketts corner. You often enter that bend at a higher speed than your competitors – can you tell us a little bit about how you navigate that corner?”

The microphone is tilted back towards him but it doesn’t fill him with anxiety like the others do. Sometimes when he’s at a press conference and speaking into two dozen microphones, he finds Jaskier’s turquoise microphone amongst the sea of black, and speaks as if he’s only speaking to him. Geralt tells himself that this familiarity is because they’re from the same homeland travelling to country after country and that a bond between them was inevitable. He’s not sure if he believes that though.

Geralt is relieved to fall back into the mechanics of racing – speed, downforce, drag, angle of entry – he can talk about aerodynamics and strategy all he likes, and Jaskier loves talking history in exchange. Not just the history of the regulations, the race, and the circuits, but of the drivers themselves. He recalls statistics from Geralt’s junior races that Geralt wouldn’t even know himself. Jaskier used to be a driver too, back when they were racing karts more often than cars, and he understands the practical side of the race too. He is more knowledgeable than perhaps any other person in the industry when it comes to Formula One history but he’s often dismissed because of his youth and his charm, and it irritates Geralt to no end that Jaskier is often pushed aside so that ‘big name’ reporters can ask questions that are much less nuanced.

Talking to Jaskier feels no different from the first time; when they were young, and drunk, and nobody knew their names. Throwing back beer after beer and talking stats ‘til the early morning in the deserted bar of a shitty circuit, long after all the other junior racers had gone home. It feels just as easy now as it did all those years ago.

Sadly, Jaskier isn’t the only one who wants to talk to him, and it’s not long before other broadcasters start waving their microphones underneath him.

Jaskier thanks him for his time and starts backing away.

“I’ll see you on the grid,” Geralt calls back, ignoring the incoming questions from other reporters.

Jaskier beams and winks as he departs, “Not if I see you first, Rivia.”

And then someone asks about wet tyres again and whatever magical charm Jaskier had over him breaks.

*

The grid is loud and bustling and the scantily-clad girls are doing their best to make umbrellas look sexy as they pose against the cars. Geralt wonders if the federation will ever end the tradition of having models on the grid but as long as advertisers can plaster their logo all over their crop tops, he doesn’t suppose it’s likely. At least the girls in his team don’t look overly uncomfortable in their three-inch heels.

Geralt loiters by his racing car parked in pole position, placing his hand against her side in a comforting gesture as he glances down the rest of the grid and analyses their positions. There are two dozen cars lined up behind him, currently swarmed by teams and journalists. He’s got a couple of good drivers directly on his tail and it will be a challenge to keep pole position throughout the race. He’ll be fine once he’s in the cockpit and he’s focusing on the race but these last few checks always fill him with nerves; always fearing that there will be a problem with the car, or someone in his team will spring a change of strategy on him, or he’ll somehow fuff the first corner and fall far behind.

He is thankful, therefore, that Jaskier is the first journalist he sees.

“Checking on your girl?” he teases.

Geralt leaves his position by his car and ducks under Jaskier’s umbrella again, standing as closely as he can, desperate to soak up his calming presence while he can.

Jaskier seemingly doesn’t mind, smiling softly and leaning closer until they’re pressed side by side, facing the camera with the microphone between them.

“How’s our Roachie doing?” Jaskier asks, using the nickname that only they use. “I know your team reinforced her chassis a couple of races ago, problems with the suspension?”

Once again, it’s easy to talk mechanics, and Geralt finds himself relaxing as he explains just how well-built and safe and fast his car really is.

“Formula One gets safer every season,” Jaskier continues. “Serious accidents happen once in a Russian year,” he says, and Geralt smiles at the Polish idiom. “But there _is_ still that risk that something will go wrong. How do you temper the fear that comes with that knowledge?”

Instinctive terror seizes Geralt at the very mention of it – images of twisted metal and crushed bodies flashing before his eyes – the heat of fire as it consumes him in his nightmares – the crash when he was nineteen that punctured his lung – the scars that still mark Eskel’s body, trapped in that burning car for too long – four deaths on this very circuit –

Geralt clears his throat and pushes the perilous thoughts aside. The danger is inherent to the sport. He accepts his mortality every time he sits behind the wheel and starts the engine.

He feels guilty, though, for the pain he sees on Jaskier’s face.

Geralt huffs a laugh and tries to clear the heavy air between them. “My competitors believe I have no fear. They say I don’t feel anything.”

“I don’t believe that,” Jaskier whispers, too low perhaps for even his quality microphone to pick up.

Geralt looks into his eyes – wide, and flickering, and realises that this time, if the worst happened, it wouldn’t just be his team that cared. _Jaskier_ would care. And Geralt suspects he wouldn’t only care because a car and a driver were out of commission, or even because Poland’s only driver would be out of the race, he would care because he _cares_.

Jaskier breaks the gaze and clears his own throat, before turning back to the camera and reeling off a multitude of safety statistics, reassuring the audience how low fatalities – and even crashes – are in professional motoring sports. But then, below the angle of the camera, his hand brushes against Geralt’s side and Geralt knows that the audience aren’t the only people that Jaskier is reassuring. And it _is_ reassuring, Geralt realises. Not just the numbers and percentages, but the very sound of Jaskier’s voice and the comforting routine of listening to him speak in their home tongue with such a depth of knowledge.

“Good luck in the race today,” Jaskier says afterwards, with a smile that is shyer than his usual bright grin. “We’ll be rooting for you.”

He always says this before the race and every time Geralt wonders how much is professional courtesy and how much is genuine support. Geralt once listened to an old commentary of Jaskier’s just to see what he was like during the race itself and it seemed that they were very much alike – as soon as the engine started, they were both focused solely on the race. There were no flirtations or gentle teasing in his commentary, just a professional description of the race with only a minor bias towards their country’s sole driver. The only exception was during unexpected stops or slow safety and warm-up laps, where Jaskier allowed a little deviation to the commentary but even then it was more likely to be statistics and history then comments on the drivers.

Jaskier doesn’t do the commentary for grand prix races, seeing as F1 draws enough of an audience in Poland that the station can afford to have both Jaskier on the ground and another person commentating in the media office, but Geralt has watched clips of him talking to other drivers and sharing information from the ground during breaks, and he seems… different with others. More professional.

He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know what any of it means.

But he wonders, sometimes, when he’s driving past the media den if Jaskier is looking at him; if he pays special attention to the black car with a little Polish flag, if he gets excited when he sees him overtake on the big screen, or worried when he hears technical information coming through on his earpiece.

Or maybe this favouritism is all an act and Jaskier doesn’t care one way or the other who wins the race as long as he gets a paycheck at the end of it.

Geralt hums, realising that he’s been caught staring at Jaskier on live television, and nods his head in farewell. “I’ll see you on the podium with any luck.”

Jaskier smiles again, gentle and kind. “With any luck.”

*

The warm-up is fine. The first lap behind the safety car is fine. And then, it begins in earnest.

It’s almost boring how repetitive it is, the same circuit, over and over, fifty two times. Every lap, his team analyse his data and feedback with their suggestions – a little more speed here, ease back here, be careful of giving an advantage here – and it helps keep the monotony at bay as Geralt constantly tries to improve his performance. The mechanics chatter in his ear about changing weather conditions and pit stops and occasionally he spies competitors attempting to slipstream or overtake. But all in all, it’s a standard race. Geralt focuses on the comforting roar of the engine and the predictable forces pressing him into his seat. This is where he belongs and there is something so rewarding in a race well done.

Geralt is almost envisioning his win – popping the champagne on the stadium and sitting in the press conference afterwards, race suit sticky with alcohol and staring at those aquamarine eyes in the audience – when a competitor tries to overtake.

It’s the Wellington straight. It makes sense to do it now, except that it _doesn’t_ , because the driver left it a millisecond too late. There’s not enough time to complete the manoeuvre but the other driver isn’t backing down. There’s not enough room for the two of them as the straight begins to curve into the chicane. 

Geralt pulls to the side, encouraging the overtake so that they might both make it out of here in one piece.

But the driver takes too long, accelerating fast but not fast enough, and not giving Geralt enough time to safely make it back to the inside track for the turn. 

The competitor’s car turns into the corner at an unexpected angle just as Roach is trying to course correct. The tail end of the car knocks Roach’s nose and sends the debris splintering across the tracks. Geralt thinks that might be the worst of it until he realises that he’s no longer anywhere near the corner. The impact must have knocked him the other way. As the other car speeds around the corner, Roach begins to spin out of control.

*

Geralt wishes he blacked out. But he didn’t. He remembered all of it.

*

The swerve. His hands gripping the steering wheel. The scenery spinning and spinning around him. How fast everything is. Yet how slow. He sees the approaching barrier – lungs, fire, _trapped_ – and how Jaskier’s bright smile flickers before his eyes.

 _Fuck_.

The car makes impact. His body is thrown yet secured – thrashing against its confines. His neck. His shoulders. His back. Everything screams in agony.

There are voices in his ear – helmet still secured. There is a medic on the way. His head is spinning.

He opens his eyes. He didn’t realise he had closed them.

Smoke, but no fire.

A broken car but no broken limbs.

He breathes a shaky sigh and reaches to unlatch himself from the wreckage except the very movement causes him to cry out in pain. His neck. _Fuck_.

He tries again. He feels the encroaching panic. _Trapped_. He’s trapped. He’s going to –

But there’s no fire. And already there are people in his vision, securing the area, spraying down the car.

Geralt tries to take a deep breath and feels the pinch of his lung – psychosomatic from his last crash – and recalls the statistics that Jaskier had relayed that afternoon. His head is too fuzzy to recall the numbers but he remembers the reassuring voice – steady and soothing – and the next time he takes a breath, it comes out steady.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, when the medic reaches him. “But my back –”

They extract him from the wreckage and around him is a flurry of sound and colour and still the deafening noise of passing cars as his helmet is removed and he is deposited carefully onto a stretcher.

They run him through tests in the ambulance and the sound of sirens intensifies his headache.

The medics talk across each other but it’s muffled through his stuffy head –

“Here?”

“Just sprained.”

“Whiplash?”

“Have you checked for –?”

“Mr Rivia, follow the light –”

“Mild concussion.”

“Bruises. Sprains. No punctures.”

“Internal bleeding?”

“Arrange a scan. Observation.”

Geralt cannot follow their conversation but he gathers that he’s not dying and that’s good. Eventually, he is carried on a gurney, out of the ambulance and into the onsite medical centre where the medics continue to prod and poke him.

They sit him in a chair, testing his limbs one by one, and eventually confirm there’s no broken bones. They issue him with a pain killer. They strip him down to his briefs and wrap him in an embarrassing foil blanket until he feels like a crisp packet. They conduct a scan of some sort to check for internal bleeding and then they give him a glass of water and keep shining lights in his eyes.

A commentary of the game is on in the background – one lap behind a safety car while debris was cleared, then back to the race, and a possible penalty for the driver that hit him – but the fast words take more brain power than he possess, and he allows it once more to become background noise.

His manager visits him and hovers behind the professionals, inquiring when his driver can drive again, and Geralt is relieved that his season isn’t totally lost. He can cope with a couple of weeks of bedrest and rehab. Geralt nods along and then realises that his neck is in a cast and can’t do any such thing. He frowns instead. They give him another painkiller and press him, gently but firmly, against the back of the chair.

“No media!” he hears from outside the facility doors. “I can’t let you in.”

“Please, my friend –”

“Jaskier,” he murmurs as he recognises the voice causing the commotion.

Five people turn to look at him with wide eyes. Geralt realises, belatedly, that he hasn’t spoken since they pulled him out the wreckage.

“The man outside the door,” he clarifies, even though every word takes careful concentration and weighs heavy on the tongue. He’s not even sure if all of it was in English but it hardly matters as long as he’s understood. “Jaskier,” he says; the name familiar even if nothing else is. “I want to see him.”

*

Jaskier is bright and colourful and too loud and Geralt finds himself wincing as he approaches.

“Shit, sorry,” Jaskier says, dropping back to a whisper as he approaches. “You’re sitting up though!” he says, hands reaching out to tug awkwardly at the edges of the foil blanket before falling by his sides again. “That’s good. I was worried. They –”

Geralt squints at the sound of a sniffle and sees Jaskier wiping a snotty sleeve against his nose. His face is red. There are tear tracks.

“They pulled you out on a _stretcher_ ,” he says, sounding genuinely distressed. “You were barely moving, I –”

Geralt is suddenly very aware that they have an audience. He clears his throat and speaks to the room at large, “Give us a moment.”

Shockingly, they do, or at least they disappear behind the medical curtain for long enough that they can pretend they’re alone. He trusts the professionals not to gossip about whatever transpires between them in any case. 

“I shouldn’t have said that to you before the race,” Jaskier says, sniffling again, too far away for Geralt to touch. “I _cursed_ you. Talking about accidents like that. It’s just… I was so afraid, and I was thinking ‘hey, if I’m afraid, how must he be feeling?’ and I…”

“It’s not your fault, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, his voice still deepened from smoke inhalation. “These things happen.”

Jaskier is shaking his head, so fast that it blurs in Geralt’s concussed mind. “They say it’s just sprains and a concussion, is that right? You’ll be okay?”

Jaskier looks devastated and Geralt can’t resist any longer; he holds out his hand and when Jaskier steps close forward, he tugs him into the circle of his arms.

The movement aches, as does the physical touch when Jaskier tucks himself close, but it pales in comparison to the relief it gives him. Geralt sighs, and for the first time since Roach started spinning, he lets go of the fear that had consumed him and lets the exhaustion take hold instead. He’s _safe_. He feels himself shudder and a tear of his own escape as he holds on to the one thing that feels like home.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says a moment later, hurriedly untangling himself from their embrace. “You’re covered in bruises –”

Geralt glances at the damage the best he can and is horrified to discover that his skin is indeed a patchwork of darkening bruises. He goes to shrug, then remembers he can’t. “The force, the strain…” he doesn’t have the mind for a scientific explanation but Jaskier is nodding along regardless.

“Of course,” he says, “but I…”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker to Geralt’s and there’s something cautious in the gaze that Geralt wants to know.

Geralt watches Jaskier swallow and suddenly he can’t hear anything else at all – the commentary, the race, the medics; it all fades into the background – and all he can focus on is the man before him.

“I knew you’d have bruises. Academically, I knew. But it’s… different seeing it, you know?” His fingers cautiously dance over the bruised skin of Geralt’s biceps as he contemplates this. “Just like when I saw that car go into the wall – I’ve seen crashes like that. I know my history. And my mechanics. I knew, academically, that you’d probably be fine but…”

Jaskier’s forehead comes to rest gently against Geralt’s, and his hand cradles his head at the join of the neck brace as if to support the additional weight. The closeness means Geralt can feel Jaskier’s huff of disbelief as it’s exhaled against his cheek.

“But,” Jaskier continues with a sigh, “I couldn’t fucking _breathe_. Every second that ticked by felt like a lifetime. I just needed to know that you were okay. That I’d see you again. I couldn’t bear it if that was the last time that I…”

Tears begin falling again and Geralt can’t stand the sight. Even though his arm _aches_ at the movement, he raises it just enough to wipe the tears away before dropping it again.

Jaskier startles at the touch and looks down at Geralt with wide eyes.

“I’m fine,” Geralt reassures him. “Besides: not your circus, not your monkeys,” he says with a crooked smile, hoping the Polish idiom will reassure him of his health. After all, it _isn’t_ Jaskier’s business – he doesn’t need to worry about Geralt, and he definitely shouldn’t be taking the blame for his mistakes.

Jaskier lets out a wet laugh and brushes Geralt’s damp hair from his forehead with a strange look of contemplation. “What if I _want_ it to be my circus.”

Geralt frowns, not understanding. Then again, he doesn’t understand much right now with his head as stuffy as it is.

Jaskier huffs another laugh, perhaps realising his dilemma, before pressing his head gently against Geralt’s again. “I _care_ about you, Geralt.”

Jaskier has never called him by his first name before. No one does. He quite likes the sound of it though. _Geralt_. It’s intimate. It causes a little thrill to run through him; makes him wonder where else he can hear it.

Geralt then, belatedly, understands the rest of the sentence.

His neck strains with the urgency with which he looks to Jaskier. “No,” he says firmly. “You can’t.” And before Jaskier gets the wrong idea, he reaches out to grasp his hands, looking him squarely in the eye. “It’s a shitty circus,” he says, falling back onto the metaphor. “This won’t be the only time you see me in here.”

Jaskier shakes his head and blinks his wet eyes rapidly as if afraid more tears will fall. “I know that.”

“I can’t ask you to –”

“Pretty sure I wasn’t asking,” Jaskier says, with a teary smile. “Pretty sure I’m going to be in this state every time you race. The only question is if you want to see it.”

Geralt wants to tighten his hold and he can’t. He wants to raise his head to kiss him and he can’t. He’s just here, trapped, trying to find a way to tell Jaskier that he cares in return.

The fear of entrapment reignites the memory of the crash and he remembers what he thought about before he hit the wall, and what calmed him afterwards.

“I already see you,” Geralt whispers, clutching onto Jaskier’s hands. “When it was…” he winces at the memory, and knows that Jaskier will understand his meaning. “I saw you. And I didn’t want it to be the last time either.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly, rubbing his thumbs gently over Geralt’s battered hands. “So do you want…?”

“Yes. Only, I thought that you didn’t. You are… hard to read,” he says, and huffs a laugh at the dire understatement. “And it’s not as if we can be open about these things. I never knew you wanted me.”

“Oh, darling,” Jaskier says, cupping Geralt’s face and rendering him entirely malleable. “I’ve wanted you since that very first time we met. Do you remember?”

Geralt’s lips tug into a smile, remembering that day, just as he did that morning, but wanting to hear the story from Jaskier’s lips regardless.

“I interviewed you for a profile piece, back when we were both running the European circuit. Your friend had just had that horrible crash. You were recovering from that lung injury. And you were sat there in that shitty restaurant and I could tell that you hated every minute of it, reevaluating everything that led you to that moment, and I thought ‘fuck it’ and I bought you a –”

“A Żywiec,” Geralt recalls fondly. “I remember. My favourite beer. You conducted the whole interview drunk.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I had to get you to talk to me somehow.”

“It worked,” Geralt said earnestly. He had been in his late teens, just as miserable as Jaskier described, and here was this guy barely drinking age himself who bought him beer after beer until he felt like he could _breathe_. “I liked you,” Geralt recalls. “I still do like you.”

Jaskier grins at him, just as broad as in his fantasies, and then Geralt is tugging at his hands again until Jaskier gets the hint and lowers his head to kiss him. It’s a soft kiss. A promise, and nothing more, but Jaskier’s gentle fingertips that loiter on his jaw speak to the depth of affection between them.

“Rest up, monkey,” Jaskier says with a coy smile when he pulls away, “I expect kisses much filthier than that in the near future.”

Geralt huffs a laugh and does as he’s bid, allowing the medics to transport him to a medical bed, and finally succumbing to exhaustion.

*

Later, when Geralt’s dragged in front of the cameras, he spies a turquoise microphone nestled amongst the black and looks up to see Jaskier staring back at him, with a small confident smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me on [tumblr](https://vands38.tumblr.com/) if you so desire.


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